“Fine. Never mind. What’s the TV show going to be about?”
“It’s a sitcom pilot about a house divided into two rental suites. A bunch of punk rockers live upstairs and Jesus rents the basement.”
I snorted. “No, really.”
“Really. It should have an interesting dynamic. Speaking of interesting dynamics, how did you come to be living with my father?”
“Nice segue. He put an ad in the paper for a room to rent.” That was true.
“What happened between you and Norman? His cash run dry?”
“Screw you.”
“Just joking.”
“Not funny.” I said and turned to look out the window.
“My father doesn’t have any money, you know.”
I didn’t respond. The ensuing silence was broken only by the music leaking from the headphones of the teenager in front of us. Baduh. Baduh. Ch. Ch. Ch. It sounded like a drum machine looping the same five beats over and over. It made my teeth ache. Whitman pulled the cord.
The bus shuddered to a halt and we disembarked downtown. Not the high-class, high-tech high-rise downtown but the low-down, low-profile, low-rent downtown.
“Here?”
“Relax,” said Whitman, “see the sights.”
He led the way to an old hotel. A hand-lettered sign in the window read, Housekeeping Rooms. Cheap. The letters were perfectly square and neat but they angled downward at the end, as though the words were about to slide off the edge of the cardboard.
“You gotta like that when the best thing they can say about the place is that it’s cheap. I wonder if any of the Louis Vuitton refugees looking for a five-star hotel ended up here?”
Whitman ignored me and walked into the lobby. Was he a heroin addict, I wondered? It would explain his pallor. But why take me along to score?
There was no one at the front desk. Johnny Cash sang from a crappy little radio on the counter. Whitman started up the stairs. There was a large, dark, may I say blood-like stain on the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. I stopped. “Listen. I don’t like this place. You do what you need to do and I’ll wait for you down here.”
“Fine.” He continued up the stairs. I looked at the empty front desk and the stain on the carpet. It appeared old, but I was no forensic expert.
“Hang on. I’m coming with you.” Halfway up the stairway, there was a cardboard sign on the wall written in the same neat square letters as the one in the front window. Whitman stopped. “Check this out.”
PLEASE DO NOT DEFECATE IN THE STAIRWAY.
THIS IS AN UNHEALTHY AND DISGUSTING HABIT.
“As though anyone who made a habit of shitting in a stairway would know what defecate means,” he said and continued up the stairs.
The hallway was dark; it smelled of piss, sour alcohol, stale cigarettes, and vaguely and strangely of chrysanthemums.
Bits of noise seeped out from behind the doors we passed — an argument, television, strange laughter, and from the door we stopped in front of, the sound of an electric typewriter being pounded at a furious rate. Whitman knocked and the typing stopped. No one came to the door. Whitman knocked again. Silence.
He called, “Marilyn, it’s me, Whitman.”
There was a shuffling. A woman who’d seen better days opened the door, or maybe she’d never seen any better days, and that’s why she looked so bad. Her hair was bleached blonde, greasy, and short. It stuck out from her head like a child’s imitation of a mad scientist for a Halloween costume. She wore a pair of tight black stirrup pants and an oversized polyester blouse in a geometric print that would have made Ginny physically ill. I couldn’t tell how old she was — fifty, maybe. Her face was pale and wrinkled, she wore blue eyeshadow, and her eyebrows had been drawn on halfway up her forehead. She stared at us.
“Marilyn, this is Frieda, a friend of mine.”
I thought “friend” was stretching it a bit. I turned my back to Whitman and smiled at her. Marilyn walked into the tiny room. Whitman followed her, I followed Whitman, and we all walked three steps and had to stop. We’d gotten as far as we could go. The stench was overwhelming. I searched for my social graces. Pleased to meet you? No. Nice place? No. Whitman smiled at me. I thought of evil public transit plans, of rush hour, and bad-tempered drivers.
“Sit down.” Marilyn gestured at the bed. I smiled, cringed, and sat. She sat down on a folding chair at a desk made out of a piece of plywood and cement blocks. On the desk was a green electric typewriter and stacks of paper. The floor was covered in clothes and food and God only knows what.
“So you’re a friend of Whitman’s?” I asked her. Whitman stood and stared out the window.
“I think friend would be overstating it some,” she answered. I smiled at her and meant it this time.
“Is the draft finished?” Whitman turned from the window apparently not bothered that no one was willing to claim him as a friend.
“What,” she said, “the FedEx man not giving you proper service, you had to come in person?”
“I had some other things to attend to. Is it finished?”
“Here.” She handed him a large stack of papers.
Whitman sat beside me on the bed. I moved over as far as I could. He read for a minute, flipping through the pages. I smiled up at the peeling paint on the ceiling. Be damned if I was going to make conversation about the weather again. Marilyn lit a cigarette and blew smoke through the line of my smile.
“Looks good,” said Whitman. “How much?”
She blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Five hundred bucks.” “Right,” he said. “Two hundred.”
“I need five.” Her voice was clipped and strong, but her foot began to knock against the rung of the chair.
“Three.” Whitman reached for his wallet.
“Four.” Whap whap whap went her foot.
“Three-fifty.”
“Fine, you bastard.”
He handed her three hundred-dollar bills and a fifty.
The rate of her foot against the chair increased dramatically as soon as the money touched her hand. Whitman motioned to me. “Let’s go.”
I stood. “Nice to meet you, Marilyn.” She stood up and dug through the clothes on the floor. “Where are my shoes?”
“Maybe you could come for dinner while Whitman is here.”
“Fucking shoes.” She was halfway underneath the bed winging things out from beneath it.
Whitman grabbed my arm. “Come on.” We were out in the hallway and the door was shut behind us.
“That was rude,” I said.
“Rude would be keeping her from spending her money as quickly as possible.”
“God, what a place. I thought some of my apartments were horrible.”
“She likes it there.” We stood on the sidewalk, blinking at the bright sunlight.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Don’t, then.” He waved at a cab that slowed to get a look at him and then pulled over.
“We’re taking a bus,” I protested.
“Like hell,” he said and got in the cab.
I climbed in after him. I didn’t have the energy for the bus at rush hour anyhow.
“1228 Morning Street,” Whitman told the driver.
“Where did you meet her?”
“I took an evening course in screenwriting when I was about seventeen and she showed up once in a while. She can knock off a perfectly constructed three-act horror script, incredibly scary stuff, like most people can put on their shoes. The last one she did for me was called The Final Address, about a killer who’d mail his victims the street numbers of where they’d die. But she can’t manage to stay sober or clean long enough to actually get them out anywhere. So, I make sure her work gets an audience, or at least a reading. She gets some cash.”
“Not much cash for a script.”
He shrugged. “She doesn’t need more.”
“And how much do you get for these scripts?”
“A bit.”
“You shit, you’re p
robably raking it in while that poor woman sits there in that hellhole and you ride around in a Cadillac.”
“I don’t have a Cadillac.”
“Limousine, then. You know what I mean.”
“You think I should go back and give her a couple thousand dollars?”
“Yes. I. Do.” My throat was closing, choking off my words.
“She’s addicted to every drug ever invented, Frieda. She’d be dead before morning. I’m concerned about even giving her three-fifty, but she probably has some debts to pay. She should be okay.”
“Concerned? You’re disgusting. If you were really concerned, you’d get her some help.” We pulled up in front of the house. While Whitman paid the driver, I slammed inside. Norman and Mr. H. hadn’t come home yet. Eeaghuuugh. How had Mr. H. ever produced such a monster? I began to crash around the kitchen. I’d said I would make supper again to atone for the fiasco last night. No yams. No sauces.
Whitman came into the kitchen and leaned around the corner. “Are you sleeping with him?”
“What? With who?”
“With my father.”
“No.” I slammed the can opener down on the counter. He turned and left while I sputtered and spat in a vain attempt to say something incredibly rude to him.
I heard him go upstairs, then come back down and close the front door behind him. Good. Maybe he was taking a plane back to L.A. where he belonged.
A half an hour later, supper bubbled in a pot on top of the stove. I made mother’s Ten Can Chili, put garlic bread in the oven, and vigourously tossed a salad. Norman and Mr. H. hadn’t returned yet.
“I tried to tell you yesterday, always make what you know. This smells good.” Gladys stood in front of the stove, leaning over the chili.
“Great. The Cooking with Gladys Show. I’m a little too upset for culinary tips right now.”
“But you always are.”
“I’m always what?”
“Upset. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I’m not the one who hangs around giving other people advice when they ran off, got married, and stopped being promising.”
“I didn’t run off.”
“Sat down then. Sat down, took up marriage, and gave up dancing. Excuse me.” I waited for Gladys to step aside, then tasted the chili and added another shake of chili powder.
“I never gave up. Never, not once. We had to get married. Well, I suppose Jack didn’t, he could have walked away from it all right, but my father demanded Jack marry me.”
“Walked away from what?”
“We were found together in a compromising position. Very compromising, considering we were both half-naked in the back of a wagon. He was so handsome. I knew I was supposed to save myself, but I thought I was going away soon anyway. Jack was from one of the other farms outside of town. He had a way of looking at a girl that melted them, and I wanted to do it, to try it once. Are you going to make a salad?”
I didn’t answer.
“A salad would be good, and some baking powder biscuits. I could teach you how to make them.”
“The salad is in the fridge and I have garlic bread. Please finish the story, Gladys.”
“They all turned against me, even Miss Johnstone the dancing instructor. She said I should have known better, that I knew what was at stake, and if I couldn’t stop myself from rolling around with farm boys then I was never going to make it anyway. So there I was, married, before I hardly knew what happened. I screamed and yelled and threatened to run away, but I was too afraid. I had nothing. But I did run away later. Later, when I was braver, or maybe more desperate.”
There was a knock at the back door. I looked at Gladys. “How do you always manage to do that?”
“Do what?” There was another knock. I ignored it.
“Get interrupted in the middle of a story. Do you plan it?”
“It’s not my fault.”
“Sure, whatever.” I turned towards the door, then sprinted to it and threw it open, hoping whoever stood there would catch a glimpse of Gladys.
“Look!” I yelled and pointed to the stove where Gladys had been standing.
Miss Kesstle jumped back about a foot, then gawked at the stove, her hands over her heart. Gladys had, of course, evaporated. “It’s good you’re cooking, Frieda. But you could give someone a heart attack yelling like that.”
“Sorry, I was excited.” Damn that Gladys and her coming and going. “Come in. Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Is he still here?” she whispered loudly.
“Whitman?” I whispered loudly back, “He’s gone out.”
“Good,” she said, “Is Mr. Hausselman home?”
“No.”
“Beethoven seems a little peaked. Could you come and look at him?”
“Where is he?”
“Under the couch. He won’t come out. Maybe he’s angry at me.”
“I doubt it. Let’s go see.” I turned the burners off and followed her out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He Looks Bad
Miss Kesstle paused at the door, then pulled a slip of paper from her apron pocket and punched in the numbers for the alarm.
“He was fine yesterday, but he’s been under the couch all day today.”
I got down on my hands and knees, moved aside a small bowl of water, and looked under the couch. Beethoven’s eyes were open but glazed, and his fur was rough and rumpled.
“Beethoven. Kitty. Kitty.” He turned his head slightly, but didn’t move. Shit. There was definitely something wrong with him. I stood up. “I think he’s sick. We’ll have to get him out and take him to the vet’s.”
Her face crumpled. “I’ll get ready.”
“I’ll see if anyone’s home next door yet.”
I ran back next door. Whitman was going up the front steps.
“Beethoven is sick. I’m going with Miss Kesstle to the vet’s. Please tell your dad when he gets home.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“I don’t know, but he looks bad.”
“I’ll come with you.” He turned back down the stairs.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Norman and Mr. H. traipsed down the sidewalk chatting and laughing.
“Hey, Frieda,” yelled Norman.
“We had a great afternoon,” said Mr. H. as they approached us. They were both smiling. Norman carried a large square package in his arms. They seemed comfortable together as if they’d known each other for years. I felt a twinge of jealousy. Mr. H. was my friend. Whitman stared at them too.
“I bought an amazing photograph done by a young girl,” said Norman. “You should see some of the work there. Did you two enjoy yourselves?” He looked from Whitman’s face to mine, his smile thinning a little.
“Of course,” said Whitman and he winked at me.
What the hell? “Something in your eye?” I asked him.
“How was your day?” asked Mr. H.
“It was — different. Beethoven’s sick. We’ve got to get him to the vet’s. Miss Kesstle is getting ready.”
Mr. H. hurried next door. The rest of us followed. Miss Kesstle stood in the middle of the living room holding a blanket; she had her sweater on inside-out.
“He’s under the couch, maybe you could get him out,” she said to Mr. H.
Beethoven didn’t struggle at all as Mr. H. gently pulled him out.
“I’ll go get the Valiant,” I said already crossing the living room.
“The keys are on a hook by the back door,” said Mr. H. from beside the couch.
I got the keys and went through the backyard, past the chicken coop to the single wooden garage in the back. I could barely make out the car in the dim light. The driver’s door squeaked loudly as I opened it. I put the key in the ignition and turned. Click. Click. Nothing.
I went back to Miss Kesstle’s. “Dead battery,” I said and handed the keys to Mr. H., who pocketed them.
Whitman said, “I’ll get us a car.” He
went into the kitchen. Norman took the blanket from Miss Kesstle.
“I’m Norman,” he said, “a friend of Frieda’s. Poor kitty.” He wrapped the blanket around the cat and handed him to Miss Kesstle. The cat lay there in her arms, its head lolling slightly.
Miss Kesstle started to cry. “Nice to meet. . . Oh, Beethoven. We’ll take you to that nice vet, the one you bit last time, he was so nice about it, you were a bad cat, weren’t you?”
Mr. H. steered her out the door. Whitman waited on the lawn. “It should be here right away. I told them it was an emergency.”
Miss Kesstle started carefully down the stairs, murmuring to the cat. She stopped suddenly. “Oh dear.”
“What?” asked Norman. “Are you all right? Do you want me to carry him?”
“No,” said Miss Kesstle, “but the vet said he had to be sedated before I brought Beethoven in again.”
“Who had to be sedated?” asked Whitman. “The vet?”
“Oh, shut up,” I said to him. “Beethoven isn’t interested in biting anyone right now, Miss Kesstle. It’ll be okay.”
We stood in a little huddle waiting for the cab. But it wasn’t a taxi that pulled up in front of the house; it was the big, black limo.
Miss Kesstle balked. “I’m not going in that,” she said. “What will people think?”
Mr. H. took her arm again. “I’m not eggstatic about it myself. Let’s just get him to the vet’s.”
He helped her in and climbed in beside her. I gave Whitman a withering look as I climbed in.
“What is the matter with you people,” he said, following me in, “that you’re all so committed to shitty forms of transportation?”
“Whitman, your language,” said Norman as he climbed in nodding towards Miss Kesstle.
“My what?”
“I happen to know how you earned this limo, remember?” I said to Whitman.
The driver looked back. “No animals please,” he said.
“This is a famous cat,” said Whitman. “He’s worth three million. Just drive.”
“There are regulations,” said the driver.
Norman handed him a fifty-dollar bill. The limo pulled away.
“How did you earn this limo?” Mr. H. asked Whitman.
“By making movies, though I doubt you’d believe that. I’m your oddball son, the embarrassment.”
Dance, Gladys, Dance Page 11